


Unlock

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Sharing, M/M, anxious!Legolas (background), language learning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 15:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Legolas and Gimli break down barriers and learn one another's languages.





	Unlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katajainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [katajainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen) in the [2000GigolasFics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2000GigolasFics) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> There's a first time in everything. Gimli and Legolas try out something new for the first time (up to and including the obvious, rating at author's discretion), and it doesn't quite go as planned. Make it as cracky as you want, I dare you!
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> This is not really cracky at all, and probably not quite what you imagined, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Set in my _Finding a Voice_ series, or my anxiety-verse, as I'm calling it in my head. This one is set probably near the end of _Building_ , in which Gimli and Legolas are living and working in Minas Tirith. Knowledge of that story is probably not fully necessary, but would be useful. Kind of a different style than I usually write, but it was fun to write!

Gimli teaches Legolas Khuzdul in secret.

For all his own desires to do so, to hear the most secret words of his people in Legolas’s voice, he is surprised on the first day at his own reluctance to begin.  They sit in the kitchen of their small shared house, the place where they have begun building their lives together, with steaming mugs of tea before them – tea that Gimli purchased and Legolas brewed – hands clasped over the table, and Gimli opens his mouth to speak, and the words lodge in his throat.

He stops for a moment, confused, unsure.  It is almost physical, this block – he did not expect it before he set out, but now he cannot speak the words of his own most treasured tongue. The language of his stories, of his crafts, of his being – he looks over at this one he loves with more than his soul, and he cannot speak them.

It seems that along with all the worth of this language, all the secrecy and pride comes along with it, the blocks that came along with every word of this language in his own childhood. He heard songs and stories, but he did not begin learning the language in truth until he was old enough to swear that he would never speak it to one not a dwarf, would never give away the secrets of his people. And it seems these lessons have stuck more than he expected.

“We do not have to,” Legolas says, voice soft but ringing in the quiet kitchen, his hand gentle pressure against Gimli’s fingers.  Gimli looks up, afraid to see censure or even uncertainty in his eyes, but all he sees is understanding.  “If it is too much for you, Gimli, I would not ask it of you.  I would not have you give away your secrets for me if any part of you is unwilling.”

“No,” Gimli says, and he is surprised at the hoarseness of his voice, as though the war in his mind and heart has come into his throat as well.  “No, I wish to; it is only – it is as though there is a lock inside of me, a lock I do not know how to open.”

“There are locks in all of us,” says Legolas, his voice so gentle, his eyes large and dark and somehow _old_ as he does not often seem.  “Deep places that we know not how to open, treasures inside we know not how to reveal.”  He reaches out and strokes Gimli’s cheekbone, his fingertips soft as his voice.  “I would know all of you, my love, but I know that no plant may bloom before its time; no fruit may ripen without the right sunlight.  If this is not the time for you to teach me your tongue, believe that I will never force you to do so.”

He will not, Gimli knows it, has never doubted it.  And even as a key eased into a lock is more likely to coax it open, he feels himself begin to loosen.  “I know,” he says, “but believe in turn that I wish this as much as you do.  It is only – I do not know how to begin.”

Legolas brushes his fingers down the side of Gimli’s face and into his beard.  “Begin as you began,” he says.

And Gimli throws away all his plans to begin with simple words, with grammar, with structure.  “Then let me tell you a story,” he says, and he feels the key turn smoothly in the lock.

* * *

Legolas teaches Gimli Sindarin in public.

For him this is not a secret to unlock; elves have ever opened their languages for any who wish to know them. And yet Legolas does not always know how to teach, so he enlists his companions to help.

All of them speak accented Sindarin; for all the time spent in his father’s court, even Legolas is too much one of them to have lost the Silvan lilt. But their Sindarin is perfect in structure if not in sound, and Gimli will never lose his own accent, anyway.

They teach him by talking: sitting at picnic in the park or wandering the streets of Minas Tirith.  In short bursts at first, with explanations of words or phrases when they come.  Gimli is a dwarf, and certainly accustomed to enduring, and sometimes he asks them to teach more than he can learn at any time – but language must be learned bit by bit, through repeating, listening, talking. They speak in Sindarin for a time, and then in Westron again. In Sindarin, then in Westron once more.

They speak it when Aragorn and Arwen have them over for dinner.  They even speak it sometimes, unexpectedly, to others they encounter in the city – the language is not unfamiliar to the people of Gondor.  Little by little: listening, repeating, speaking.

And Gimli has always been skilled in speaking.

He picks it up quickly – almost frustratingly so.  It is not too long before he can carry on conversations in competent Sindarin, so long as the talk is slow enough for him to keep up.  Legolas’s companions laugh at his accent, but assure him they mean it only in fun – they, after all, would surely be hopeless in his language.

At that, Legolas always goes silent.

* * *

Gimli teaches him differently.  Legolas learns Khuzdul as he has learned nearly everything: by listening. By closing his eyes, and letting Gimli speak to him, and letting his ears and spirit pick up the sounds.

Legolas has always had an ear for languages.  As a child, he never wished to speak, and he spent much of his time quietly listening: to his family – his mother and father, Laerwen and Siril – to his people; to the trees and animals that spoke to one another.  He learned sound and tone and sense – even now, he can tell much of a people from their language, and he can hear more than what is spoken.

But he has never been skilled at speaking himself.

Gimli teaches him Khuzdul through stories and songs, and Legolas listens.  He listens until he feels he can understand the meaning behind what is spoken: sadness, and pride, and hope, and more which cannot be said aloud, buried in the words, in the sounds, in the up-down roll of Gimli’s voice as he speaks.  And when Gimli teaches him grammar, gives him the meanings of the words, they fall into the sense of what Legolas has heard, individual notes of music in the harmony of the whole.  He listens, and he understands.

But he cannot speak.

Gimli speaks to him, and Legolas understands and opens his mouth to reply – and he cannot.  The words trip over one another, they leave in the wrong order, the sounds mangle themselves into a limp mass on his tongue and fall dead into the air.

Gimli is more patient with him than he is patient with himself.  He assures Legolas that learning a language takes time; he lies that the only reason his Sindarin has improved so rapidly is that more elves are helping to teach him.  (None of the other dwarves know of the taboo they are breaking.) But Legolas knows that they are kind lies, spoken to make him feel better – and he does not.

But finally, Gimli shows him.

* * *

Alma gives him the solution when she approaches him.

“Lord Gimli,” she says, lowering her voice, looking around.  “May I speak to you later?”

“Certainly,” he says – and then spends the next hours of work wondering what she intends.  Has she a secret that she wishes to tell him? Why else would she look so covert?  And yet – what could she possibly have to say?

His curiosity only rises when she waits until everyone else has left the smithy, holding him back to be certain they are all gone, and then draws him into the farthest corner.  “What is it?” he says at last, unable to wait any longer.  “What is your secret?”

“Not mine,” she says, which does not make this any clearer.  She shifts, and does not meet his eyes.  “I hear you are learning elvish.”

“I am.”  Gimli’s heart starts beating faster, though he keeps his face calm and his breathing steady.  She is going to ask, he knows.  He has wondered what he will do if something like this happens, has decided that he will tell the truth – but he hoped that none would ask him, not now, not yet.  He knows not when would have been better, but still – _not now_ , runs through his head.  But he will not lie to her.

She nods.  Clearly this was only her introduction.  “I could not help wondering, then, if you – are you” – She takes a breath.  “Are you teaching him Khuzdul?”

Gimli’s heartbeat washes cold down into his stomach.  But.  “I am,” he says.  This is the right decision, he knows it for himself, and he will not waver in it.  At least, he will not appear to waver – not before his second.

She takes another breath: long, shaky, and then another, but she says nothing.  Gimli waits.  This silence is not for him to break.

At last, she looks up.  “Is there” – She hesitates.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

* * *

When Legolas arrives home that evening, Alma is there.

“Good evening, Lord Legolas,” she says, and he returns the greeting, but looks at Gimli in puzzlement.

Gimli says nothing until they are all inside, and then he takes Legolas’s hand.  “Alma wished to come help with our lesson tonight, Legolas.  And I thought” –

“Wait,” Legolas interrupts him.  “You told your companions” –

“She guessed,” Gimli says, and squeezes his hand.  “She guessed, and she offered her aid.”

“And you” – Legolas does not know how to respond, how to feel.  Touched, yes – flattered, even, that Alma cares enough, believes in him enough to wish to invite him into this shared secret of their world – but all the same, he cannot believe that Gimli would allow her, invite her, into this most private of moments.  He cannot speak Khuzdul, truly he cannot, and he would not force another dwarf to listen to his voice mangle their sacred tongue, would not have this be his impression as a speaker of the language – how will he be able to say anything, anything at all tonight – and how could Gimli not know –

It is Gimli’s turn, now, to say, “Wait.”  He strokes his thumb over the back of Legolas’s hand: soothing circles.  “I had a new idea for tonight, my love, if you will let me tell you.”  He guides Legolas to the table and sits with him, Alma taking the chair opposite them.  “I wish to show you how much you have learned.  You need not speak Khuzdul – only Alma and I will, and you may respond in Westron.  But I wish you to listen, and to understand how much you know.”  He raises his other hand to Legolas’s cheek.  “Is that acceptable to you?”

Legolas’s stomach is tight with apprehension – he does not know how he will feel, how Alma will feel; he does not believe Gimli, either, about his own progress, and how can he dare to claim any sort of knowledge of this language when he knows he is not supposed to have it?  But Gimli’s smile is reassuring, and his hands are gentle, and Legolas nods.

The first moments of the “lesson” are not as reassuring as Gimli’s words.  Gimli speaks – a simple greeting – and Alma opens her mouth to answer and stops, the same block that Gimli faced seemingly holding her back as well.  Legolas’s stomach knots itself tighter, and before he can stop himself, he is bursting out with, “You needn’t, Alma, if you do not wish to – I will take no offense if it is too much for you to speak your language before an elf” –

But she shakes her head.  “My body does not want to,” she says slowly, “and nor does part of my mind, but I” – She looks over at him, gives him a slow smile.  “ _I_ do,” she says firmly.  “I was taught from childhood to keep my language and my heritage a secret from all others, but – I do not wish to.”  She tosses her head, and it is as though she is speaking her defiance to someone else.  “I know not why we hold apart, but I am finished with it.”  And she turns to Gimli, and she repeats the words in Khuzdul – a declaration in her own tongue – and Legolas understands it.

Understands it and more!  He sits at the table, holding Gimli’s hand and listening to his voice and his language, he listens to their voices speaking, slow at first and then faster and faster, and he _understands_.  And though he does not muster up the courage to do so in Khuzdul of his own, he can even respond.

And when Alma departs, he gathers the courage to stammer out a farewell of his own.

* * *

Gimli has been waiting for this moment.  He knew not always that he was, but he knows now that ever since their elven wedding at the outskirts of then-Mirkwood, ever since Legolas gave him that intimate knowledge of his body that had been – and would be – given to no other in all his long life, he has been waiting to return the favor: to give Legolas, in turn, a knowledge of his soul.  But he did not want to do so until he knew that Legolas could hear it and understand, could _know_ with all his own soul what was being given to him.

“Come with me,” he says, and leads Legolas out into their small backyard.

It should be done in a cave, by rights, but where better than this small home of their own, this representation of their own little world, their place in the larger?  And for an elf, where better than outside, under the stars that are beginning to shine through the dusky sky?

There is a small dogwood tree in their yard, slender and young yet, though Legolas assures him it will grow larger, and Gimli built a stone bench to sit beneath it.  He leads Legolas here now, sits him down, and holds his hands.

“I wish,” he says, and he has to take another breath for the shaky softness expanding in his belly.  “I wish to tell you my name.”

He says the words in Khuzdul, and he uses the word for _name_ that does not exist in Westron – the true-name, the deep-name, the one that belongs only to those most beloved.  Legolas has come to understand, through the stories and songs Gimli has shared with him, the significance of this name, and Gimli can see it in the way his eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says.  “Oh, Gimli, are you sure – this honor – I” –

“This honor is yours,” says Gimli, “along with all the rest of me.  This is the truth of my soul, and I would have given it to you long ago, but I wished to wait until I knew you could hear it and understand.”

Gimli does not know what he expected – perhaps for Legolas to continue to flutter, to refuse – but something goes still between them, and that understanding is still there in Legolas’s face: the understanding that this is no gift to turn down.

“And I will treasure it,” he says softly, in Gimli’s language, and the words are tentative and slow, but he understands them, “as I treasure all that you are.”

Gimli takes a long, slow breath, and he pulls Legolas down, lips to his ear.  When he whispers his name, his whole soul shivers.

Legolas breathes, too: slow and unsteady, his chest rising and falling.  “Wait,” he says then, and he closes his eyes for a long moment.  When he opens them again, they gleam with starlight.

He reverses their positions, and whispers Gimli’s name back into his ear – hesitant, but correct.

A key slides into Gimli, into a last bolt he did not know was there, and he feels his entire self unlock.


End file.
